


if love were enough

by pennypennyinnyc



Category: Figure Skating RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 17:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15756684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennypennyinnyc/pseuds/pennypennyinnyc
Summary: If love were enoughOROne last time





	if love were enough

**Author's Note:**

> Angsty angst. Sorry!

  
  
The snow falls thick to the ground as he parks the SUV on her paved driveway. It’s a cold Friday afternoon; the small lake town is practically deserted, except for the few hundred people that live there year round. There’s dust gathering on some of the surfaces in her family cottage; nobody’s been there since Labor Day.  
  
He heads to the garage to grab some wood and light a fire in the small fireplace in the living room. Once he’s done, they snuggle on the couch listening to the soothing crackling of the flames. He kisses her temple, holding on to her for dear life, like he’s afraid to let her go. She breathes him in, tracing distracted patterns on his chest with her hand, her mind a million miles away.  
  
There’s nothing rushed in the way they make love that first night. It’s slow, and sweet and she thinks she would find it completely corny if she were sharing this moment with anyone else other than him. He pushes into her in a slow and steady rhythm, his mouth on hers, his hand cupping her face in a way that makes her heart ache with longing, even if he’s right there, his body on hers. They come together, moaning each other’s names over and over again, in low breaths, almost like a prayer that will never get answered.

She cherishes the way he holds her once they get back to bed after cleaning up; the way he cradles her in his arms as if he’s trying to protect her from something awful that he knows is inevitably going to happen.  
  
They wake up at the crack of dawn, but they don’t leave the warmth of bed. She’s never been a morning person, but she finds herself wanting to savor every single waking minute with him. They kiss slowly and languidly, morning breaths be damned. He makes her come with his mouth, and then she’s on top of him, sinking down on him slowly, his hands on her breasts, hers tracing the hard lines of his abs. She chases her orgasm methodically and he meets her thrust for thrust. It’s a dance they’ve rehearsed many times; a dance they know from muscle memory; a dance that never gets old. She never feels as whole as she does when they’re one, sharing an intimacy and pleasure that is toe curling and makes them come undone, but somehow still feels completely healing.  
  
They spend the whole day in bed, laughing and talking of everything and nothing, making love, and drinking some awful-tasting instant hot chocolate with tiny white and pink marshmallows that he goes to the kitchen to make every few hours or so. It's simple. It's domestic. It's a glimpse of a 'what-if' that is too painful to fully let themselves imagine.  
  
He lies awake at night, watching her sleep, and the pain in his chest makes it hard for him to breathe. He runs his hand through her soft hair, pressing his body as close as he possibly can into hers.  
  
She wakes up before him, and quietly slips out of bed. She makes coffee, and then sits on the pouf in front of the back porch window, watching the snow falling quietly on the unusually flat surface of the lake, overehelmed by all the thoughts crowding her head. She hears his light footsteps before she sees him, and scoots over so he can sit behind her, her body nestled between his legs, her head resting on his shoulder. He hugs her so tightly it almost hurts, but she doesn’t mind. She wishes she could feel this close to him for the rest of her life.

He kisses her neck, a light brush of his lips at first that quickly gets more persistent; his teeth graze her soft skin, and then bite down to mark her. There’s desperation and sadness in the way his hands cup her breasts through her flannel pajama top, hastily ripping off the buttons in an attempt to get rid off the piece of clothing more quickly. She moans under his touch, arching her back, and finally turning around so she’s facing him.  
  
His eyes are darker than usual, and shiny with tears he’s trying not to shed. She kisses him with fervor, her tongue meeting his. She takes off his sweatshirt and runs her hands up and down his well defined chest, wanting to memorize every single indentation. He picks her up easily, and once he gets her to the couch, they quickly discard the rest of their clothes.    
  
She straddles him, resting her forehead to his before sinking down on him and crying out his name. He growls, his hands on her ass lifting her up to speed up the tempo. It’s not gentle, and it’s not slow. It feels desperate and messy and sad and final. She comes first, and he follows quickly, spilling himself inside her. They stay like that, holding each other, their hearts beating as one.  
  
The drive back to London is quiet. A somber silence of understanding between them. He wishes he could say everything he’s feeling — _I love you. I want you. I don’t think I can live without you_ , but he knows that would just make it harder.  
  
She looks at him as he drives, wishing she were different, wishing she were the kind of person that could give him what he deserves; what he wants; what he needs. Her hand finds his, and their fingers intertwine. She wonders if she’ll ever stop hurting, if she’ll ever manage to feel like anything else other than half of a whole. She has to bite the inside of her cheeks until she tastes blood to stop the tears from falling. She doesn’t want to cry; she doesn’t want him to see her cry.  
  
He parks the car in front of her house and she unbuckles her seat-belt. He feels a knot in his throat so tight he’s afraid he might choke. He doesn’t trust his voice, he wouldn’t know what to say anyways. What is there to say, really? What else is there to say that they haven’t told each other already?  
  
“If love were enough...”  
  
She’s the one to break the silence, her voice strangled, her lips quivering.  
  
He nods in understanding. He hugs her so tightly it hurts. It’s uncomfortable, the armrest in the middle of the two car seats poking his ribs insistently, but he can’t bring himself to let her go. To let _them_ go. He’s so tempted to throw all of their rationally made decisions out of the window and just say fuck it, let’s give it another chance. Let’s pretend we could make this work just for a little longer. Let’s pretend we want the same things. _Let’s pretend love **is** enough_. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to keep her from the kind of life she deserves.  
  
She’s the first one to let go, grabbing her overnight bag from the backseat with one hand and opening the car door with the other. She hopes he won’t follow her; she doesn’t think she will be strong enough to push him away if he does. She knows it’s not a real goodbye, but a part of her thinks that if it were, it would probably hurt less. Her hands shake as she tries to unlock her front door, using every single ounce of willpower in her body to stop herself from looking back at him, still sitting behind the wheel of his car. Once she's inside her white, sterile-looking house, the door safely locked behind her, she finally allows herself to cry.

She thinks about the agreement they made less than three years prior.

  
_Just us. One last time._

 

 

FIN


End file.
